A Sojourn in Bohemia

by G. D. Falksen

  “But Liebchen,” Korbinian said, smirking horribly, “we must answer the question. What could possibly drag a man from your arms at such an hour? For I find in that a thing most curious.”

  He tried the last drawer on the desk. It was locked.

  “Mmm. Curious indeed.”

  “Stop this now!” Varanus demanded. “We are guests!”

  Korbinian took a letter opener from the chaos he had created on the top of the desk and forced the locked drawer open. He took out the parcel that Julius had been given and began to examine its contents, which proved to be sheets of coarse paper now that Varanus looked at them properly. Seeing them from behind, she did not know what they contained, but whatever Korbinian read in them made a fresh tear of blood trickle from his eye.

  “Oh, Liebchen,” he murmured, “what man could not be jealous of you?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  Without a word, Korbinian held up the papers for Varanus’s examination. Varanus took a step closer and suddenly realized that they were sketches, drawn variously in pencil and charcoal with a practiced hand. The first was of some people seated in a cafe: Friedrich and his friends.

  “No…” Varanus murmured.

  “Yes, Liebchen,” Korbinian replied.

  He dropped the first drawing. The next was Friedrich again, on his own, reading a book over breakfast in a small restaurant.

  “Julius has been following our son?”

  The paper fell away from Korbinian’s fingers, revealing another of Friedrich, another of his friends, another and another until the floor was littered with drawings of Friedrich being watched in secret. Korbinian smiled as he held up the last few sketches.

  Varanus saw herself and her son standing in the Wenzelsplatz outside the restaurant they had dined at that very night, smiling and talking. Varanus felt cold. She shuddered and the shadows drew in all around to comfort her. She saw a hideous light in Korbinian’s eyes as he smiled and held up the very last page.

  It was a simple, hurried sketch of Friedrich’s house, with her son just about to enter.

  “What is this?” Varanus whispered, finding her throat dry and her voice hoarse. She took the sketch from Korbinian and stared at it.

  “Don’t you see, Liebchen?” Korbinian murmured in her ear. Suddenly he was behind her, his bloody cheek caressing her hair. “Your new friend is going to murder our son.”

  “No.…”

  It could not be so simple, Varanus told herself. There was something going on, truly, but she could find a solution. She only had to think! Why couldn’t she think?

  Korbinian opened the office door and, taking Varanus by the hand, led her through a small corridor toward the adjoining parlor. The voices were louder, but they were unclear, a chaotic torrent of words that Varanus recognized but did not understand. She stepped into the parlor and saw Julius standing around a table with a group of men, all of them examining a map. Von Steiersberg was among them, but she did not recognize the others.

  “Now remember,” Julius was saying, “make sure you capture the girl and the violinist.”

  “Leave no witnesses,” Von Steiersberg added.

  “No witnesses,” Julius agreed after a moment’s hesitation.

  As they spoke, Von Steiersberg looked up and caught sight of Varanus approaching. He gasped and swore. The other men turned, and Varanus saw the blood drain from Julius’s face.

  “Varanus…” he said, taking a few steps toward her. “I said I would only be a few minutes. We are just discussing—”

  “My son,” Varanus finished.

  Julius’s eyes fell upon the sketch that Varanus still held in her hand. A look of regret crossed his face.

  “I am so very sorry,” he murmured.

  “I demand an explanation, Count von Raabe!” Varanus snapped. “You have had men following my son! Following me! And now this?”

  Von Steiersberg drew alongside Julius. “You know what must be done,” he said.

  Julius exhaled and nodded. He took a few steps toward Varanus, who quickly withdrew a pace.

  “Julius, let us be reasonable,” Varanus said.

  “I am sorry,” Julius replied, shaking his head. “I do not know what else you have seen. What else you have heard. And I know that you are not a fool. But I promise I will be quick.”

  “Get on with it!” Von Steiersberg shouted.

  “Julius…” Varanus said, withdrawing again and slowly raising her hands.

  But Julius did not answer her. He lunged forward and grabbed Varanus by the throat, choking her with his strong, smooth fingers. His grip was more powerful than Varanus had remembered, perhaps invigorated by desperation. Had she still walked in the Shadow of Death, she might soon be in its darkness.

  But she was Living, and the Living had little to fear from mortal strength.

  Varanus broke Julius’s grasp easily and tore his hands away. Julius stared at her, shocked to see such power in the body of someone so small.

  “How…?”

  Varanus did not answer. Instead, she grabbed his robe and pulled him down to her level, kissed his soft lips one last time—for even marred by treachery, they were still quite pleasant—and slammed his head against the door frame. She heard and felt the side of his skull fracture from the blow.

  “Good God!” someone exclaimed.

  “Kill her!” Von Steiersberg shouted, backing away and grabbing a revolver inside his coat. “Kill her now!”

  The other men rushed at Varanus. Some of them came barehanded while others had the sense to draw knives or pistols, but all of them moved close too quickly for the weapons to be useful. Now all thoughts of reason and discourse were gone. The darkness in the corners of the parlor loomed high, painting the walls and the ceiling black as Varanus flung herself into the mob, kicking and punching.

  Varanus killed two men outright as they came at her with knives, crushing the throat of one and striking the other hard in the chest until his heart gave out. Another man was suddenly upon her, and Varanus ducked low and threw him into a fourth man armed with a revolver before the gunman could fire.

  The headiness of violence had taken her, and Varanus laughed as she fought. Across the room, Von Steiersberg aimed his pistol at her; Varanus, lacking another body to throw, grabbed a book from a nearby shelf and hurled it at him. Von Steiersberg shied away, turning so that the book struck him in the arm.

  Laughing again, Varanus dispatched a third man as he collapsed in front of her, snapping his neck with a single twist. Everywhere she turned, Varanus saw Korbinian watching her amid the looming shadows, a smile on his bloody lips.

  “Behind you,” he whispered, though Varanus still heard him clearly.

  Varanus spun about, expecting another one of Von Steiersberg’s men. Instead she saw Julius standing with ease despite his injury, as blood slowly pooled into one eye, transforming it to a bright crimson.

  “How…?” Varanus gasped.

  As she spoke, her eyes caught a flash of steel. She grabbed for Julius and flung him away again, but not before he plunged a knife deep into her neck and tore a long slice across the side of her throat.

  Varanus grabbed at her throat as blood spurted across the wall and the carpet. Were she mortal she would be suffocating too, but breathing was the least of her concerns. Varanus felt her head swim and her limbs go heavy. A few moments later, she collapsed to her knees and finally fell onto the floor, her eyes darting about in a desperate search for something to staunch the blood.

  Even the Living were vulnerable to blood loss, which sapped their strength and finally paralyzed them until their wounds could heal. Varanus had seen Shashavani far older and stronger than she rendered helpless by nothing more than a slit throat or a sword through the heart.

  Nearby, Julius picked himself up again and clutched his head. The other men were
getting up too—those that had not been killed outright.

  “A fine mess of things this is, Julius,” Von Steiersberg grumbled, hurrying to help his friend. “And all over the carpet too!”

  “I will buy you a new carpet,” Julius grumbled. He looked down at Varanus, who he surely assumed was dying as her limbs grew numb and her body stopped writhing. “Such a shame. She would have been a marvelous addition to our society.”

  “There is always the husband,” Von Steiersberg noted.

  Julius shook his head. “No, it is too much of a risk. Who knows how he will react to his wife’s death. Best to leave it. Or perhaps kill him too. He is dangerously inquisitive regarding the tenets of our faith.”

  Von Steiersberg gave a nod of agreement. “That is probably best.” He snapped his fingers at a couple of the men. “You two, dress the body, make certain you take all of her jewels and valuables, and dump the body in the river. Make it seem a robbery. The servants will attend to our dead comrades.”

  “Yes, My Lord,” came the reply.

  “Where is the husband?” Julius asked. “He has something I would like to acquire before his grief drives him back to Russia and beyond my grasp.”

  “I have it on good report that he has been at the bookseller’s all evening,” Von Steiersberg said.

  “Even better. Herr Mordechai is another dangerously inquisitive person. He may be a skeptic, but I fear he will eventually uncover something that will leave him unable to dismiss our faith as fantasy. Better to kill him now and prevent an unwanted epiphany.”

  Julius went to a nearby table with halting, uncertain steps and scribbled a list of names onto a piece of paper. Varanus counted it a miracle that he was still conscious and standing, but he was clearly suffering some effects from his fractured skull. He handed the paper to the nearest man and said:

  “This is a list of books in Herr Mordechai’s possession that I require. Go to the bookstore, kill the bookseller and Prince Shashavani, and retrieve these items. Then burn the place. Leave nothing to be found.”

  The man nodded and hurried for the door, quick about his business.

  “I have some agents watching the bookstore!” Von Steiersberg called after him. “Gerhard and Schultz. They will help you.” He turned to the others. “The rest of you, come with me. We go to retrieve my fiancée and punish the dog who dared to steal her!”

  This was met with cheers. The men were eager for violence, Varanus noted, though it was only with great effort that she maintained enough consciousness to think such a thought. Her vision was clouded almost to blindness, and soon she would be unconscious.

  She saw Julius kneel over her and stroke her cheek. She wanted to lunge at him and tear out his throat, but her body could not even twitch in reply to the impulse.

  “Alas, my darling,” Julius murmured, “what a shame this is. I was so certain you were touched by Her favor. Such life. Now but dead flesh.”

  Varanus tried to scream her rage, but her lungs had stopped working.

  Von Steiersberg placed a hand on Julius’s arm and helped him stand again.

  “Are you certain you want to join us for the ritual?” he asked. “Perhaps you should rest.”

  Julius touched his temple, which gave slightly beneath his finger.

  “Oh no, my friend, it is imperative that I am there and imperative that we have a proper sacrifice. Our Mother in Her mercy has preserved me for now, but without an offering and Her divine grace, I doubt that I will last the week. The violinist’s death will be my salvation.”

  Von Steiersberg smiled and said something, but Varanus could no longer hear anything. The shadows closed in around her until there was nothing left but the darkness of dead senses and a corpse confining a living mind as it struggled blindly against oblivion.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Friedrich was still waiting at the window when Stanislav joined him, alerted to the danger by a few quiet words from Zoya. Stanislav was pale with worry, and he kept his hand resting on the handle of his revolver as he looked out past the curtains.

  “Yes, I know spies when I see them,” he said, after a lengthy observation. “How long have they been there?”

  “Couldn’t say,” Friedrich answered. “Some time at least.”

  “Over an hour,” Zoya added.

  “You saw them first?” Stanislav asked.

  Zoya nodded. “At first I didn’t think anything of it. You know we often get drunks around here.”

  Stanislav and Friedrich exchanged leery looks. The vagrant population in their particular little neighborhood often seemed to outnumber the other inhabitants.

  “But I finally realized they were actually watching the house,” Zoya continued, “so I alerted Freddie.”

  “Freddie before me?” Stanislav asked. He made it a joke, but Friedrich knew he was annoyed.

  “Of course. It’s Freddie’s house.”

  “Wilhelm’s the one the landlord deals with,” Stanislav said.

  “Freddie pays for it,” Zoya countered.

  Friedrich cleared his throat and raised a finger. “Back to the spies.”

  “Right,” Stanislav agreed. “What to do.”

  “Obviously we must leave,” Friedrich said. “It’s not safe for you or Erzsebet.”

  “You reckon it’s Von Steiersberg?” Stanislav asked. He sounded surprised, still holding confidence in the idea that they had given Erzsebet’s fiancé the slip.

  Friedrich almost mentioned that he recognized the spies, but he stopped himself. Mentioning that would mean revealing that he had seen the sketch artist earlier that day. They must have followed him home. If only he had shown better sense, if only he had been more alert, none of this would be happening. And he could not bring himself to reveal that, however hard he tried to form the words. Guilt held fast his tongue and left the truth dead in his throat.

  “Of course it’s Von Steiersberg,” Zoya replied. “You don’t believe he was tricked by that nonsense about you fleeing the city, do you?” She sighed and shook her head. “A wily fox like that wouldn’t go chasing halfway across Europe in search of you without leaving a few of his dogs behind to keep sniffing, would he?”

  “You give his cleverness too much credit,” Stanislav said.

  “Who else would it be?” Friedrich asked, finding his voice again.

  “Secret police, obviously,” Stanislav answered. “It might not even be me they are after. It could be anyone: Wilhelm, Ilya, Nicolas, that Schmidt fellow who turned up the other day.”

  “Regardless, they are here,” Friedrich said. “We must act quickly.”

  “Agreed.” Stanislav looked out the window again. “If they’re watching the front, we will have to go out the back, through the alleyway.”

  “And if more men are out back?” Zoya asked.

  Stanislav drew his revolver for effect. “We go past them, one way or another. But at least we will escape them before they can come in force to our front door!”

  Friedrich frowned as the implications of Zoya’s question began to sink in. Why attack by the front door, down a street that was plainly visible from the windows, even if it was pitch dark outside? Why not take the alley in the first place?

  “Why would they come in force through the front?” he asked.

  Stanislav turned pale. “Why indeed?” he agreed, taking a step back from the window as he came to grips with the same realization as Friedrich. “There’s no clear view of the alleyway from the house. They could approach that way and we would never see them!”

  Zoya slowly stood and looked around the room. “Where is Erzsebet?”

  “She and Nicolas went to fetch some more wine from the kitchen…” Stanislav began. There was a pause as his face grew paler still. “Oh God.”

  As he spoke, a loud thudding noise sounded from the back of the house. It was followed momen
ts later by the loud bark of gunshots, and suddenly the revelry in the parlor was seized by panic. Some people began screaming. The revolutionaries, drunk though they were, grabbed for their weapons. Some had revolvers, others had knives, and one fellow even upended a mostly empty bottle to serve as a club. The guests were there for the party and did not know what to do, but Stanislav’s men were used to danger and they acted accordingly.

  Friedrich and Stanislav exchanged one look and bolted for the kitchen. As he ran, Friedrich heard Zoya calling after them:

  “Freddie! More are coming down the street!”

  “Wilhelm, the front door!” Stanislav shouted in passing before leaving the other revolutionaries to protect the front of the house.

  Friedrich was the first one into the kitchen, which was small and cramped and smelled of burned meat and old vegetables. There was a narrow door that led out into the alleyway. It had been latched, but now it stood open, thrown almost off its hinges by some powerful force—probably the shoulder of the brawny man with whom Friedrich suddenly found himself face-to-face.

  The big fellow held a smoking revolver, and he fired at Friedrich, who only just managed to throw himself to the side in time to escape the shot. The bullet buried itself into the wood of the door frame. A moment later, Stanislav burst in, and Friedrich lunged at the invader to pre-empt the next shot, which would have been for his friend.

  A blow to the head with the revolver barrel followed by a punch in the gut sent Friedrich to his knees. His head swam with pain, but he struggled to keep his senses. He saw blood on the floor. Then he spotted Nicolas lying by the door, slowly dying from the three bullet wounds in his chest. Erzsebet knelt by the dying man, his blood staining her dress and her hands.

  Given his opening by Friedrich, Stanislav barreled into the attacker at full force, pummeling the man with his revolver. He took a step back and shot the attacker point blank in the chest. The man winced but he did not fall. Instead, despite what could only have been a considerable amount of pain, he tore the revolver from Stanislav’s grasp and prepared to return fire with both weapons.